The Gambler
by Super Secret Siha
Summary: F!Courier and Vulpes Inculta discuss their differing ethical philosophies, conduct an illicit business transaction, and seduce one another. Posted originally on the Fallout Kink Meme. Rated M for language, violence, and sexual content. Bethesda owns all.
1. Chapter 1

The walls of the Atomic Wrangler were thick with grime, some unidentifiable grease that rivaled cloud residue in its toxicity. Six had half a mind to take a sample of it for experimentation; undoubtedly she would discover a hundred practical uses for the stuff: an adhesive for when Wonderglue just wouldn't stick, a shellac substitute, a cure for male pattern baldness… the possibilities boggled the mind.

Six took a deep breath of the viscous air, the odors of stale beer and vomit mingling in her nose, and then placed five chips on red. Anson the dealer winked at her and spun the roulette wheel. 26 black. Of course. The Courier smiled and put five more on red.

This had become something of a ritual for Six. She would doll herself up and trek out to Freeside, where she'd lose a little at roulette, drink a little whiskey, and tinker around with FISTO the sexbot. Usually Cass would come with her, though the caravaneer hated Freeside. That had been her excuse for bowing out this week. It suited Six just fine either way. The Courier just needed an easy good time after the hell of the Sierra Madre.

"Gambling is a dreadful vice," murmured a voice in her ear. Vulpes Inculta. Cass had called him a handsome devil when they'd met him outside the Tops, and that he most certainly was. He wore a black suit and a fedora, and as he spoke, he ran a slender finger down the length of Six's unclad arm, raising goosebumps on her skin. The proximity of his bewitching voice to her auricle sent a shiver up Six's back, and to her dismay, a shot of sensation to her sex.

She hated the reaction this man produced in her body, a primal combination of fear and lust. The Rough Fox was dangerous; if the Courier believed in the concept of evil, he would fill that package deliciously. And now she was thinking of delicious packages. Perfect.

"All things in moderation, Mr. Fox," she said as the ball landed on black again. "Speaking of which, buy me a drink?"

"Of course," he said, motioning away from the roulette table. "Do you ever win?"

"Yeah, I won five caps one time," Six smirked. "Highlight of my week. See you later, Anson."

"Keep the wind at your back, Miss Six," the roulette dealer said with a wink.

Fox led her to a table in a dark corner of the bar, and motioned to Garret. The proprietor, glaring all the while at the disguised Legionary with an expression of contempt and suspicion, brought a fresh bottle of whiskey and two tumblers to their table. Fox glared right back.

"You need anything else, anything at all…" Garrett said to Six, placing his hand on hers.

"I'll holler," the Courier replied. "Thanks, James."

Garret nodded, and backed away from them, his stare piercing into Fox until Bill Ronte distracted him with a request for "more liquor and a half-decent whore."

Six opened her bottle and poured some whiskey into each glass. "Just a warning," she said, sliding one glass across the table to Fox. "This is my turf. Try anything funny and those fine-lookin' gentlemen with the big guns will be up your ass quicker'n a deathclaw in heat."

"That's pretty quick," Fox replied with a small smirk.

"Better believe it," Six grinned. She sniffed at her whiskey and took a sip. "Now, let me guess. 'The Lord' has a plan for me."

"Indeed, he has," Fox crooned. His gray eyes gleamed with something resembling mirth. "We've missed you in 'Zion,' Courier. I lost track of you for quite some time. Where have you been?"

"Elsewhere," Six stated.

She did not want to talk about the Sierra Madre. Not with Fox; not with anybody. She had told Veronica as much as she could without breaking down, but the nightmares were all too real. The pinch of the slave collar around her neck, the Cloud thick in her lungs, and the glow of the Ghost People's unholy eyes haunted her every time she laid her head down to rest. Needless to say, she wasn't sleeping much these days.

"Interesting," the Frumentarius said, pretending to sip his whiskey. "And did you learn anything on your excursion to this mysterious 'elsewhere'?"

"I learned how to run real fucking fast," the Courier retorted.

"A useful skill in your line of work," Fox remarked. "Skills that are wasted among this filth." He gestured around them. "Sticky floors and cheap rotgut, and men who see you as a means to an end. A hank of meat to temporarily sate their ravenous hunger…"

Six could not hold back a laugh. "Oh, that is rich, coming from the likes of you!"

"Say what you will about my people," Fox said quietly. "We exist only to serve our Lord."

"All hail the mad tyrant in the sky," Six smirked. "Supplication to his whims is better how, exactly?"

"Look around, Courier. Does anyone here seem happy?"

"No, but neither do you."

"And what," Fox drawled, "would the wise and well-traveled mail-lady suggest I do to increase my happiness?"

Six shook her head. "See? You condescend to me just as bad as those ravenous men you deride." As the Courier spoke, her fury increased, but her voice remained low, so as not to attract undue attention. The ire was apparent in her coal-black eyes. "At least they're honest about their avarice. They don't delude themselves that the fucked-up, hypocritical things they do are for the greater good. Maybe they see me as a means to an end, but they never, ever tried to convince me otherwise."

"My goodness," Fox purred, leaning over the table and resting on his forearms. "You are beautiful when you're angry."

"Fuck. You."

A rare thing occurred then. Vulpes Inculta cracked a smile. It was among the most terrifying and arousing things Six had ever seen. Her breath caught in her throat and her mouth went dry. She had never wanted any man more than she wanted this one at this moment, and it disgusted her.

"You want to talk about self-delusion?" Fox sneered. "Fine. Let's talk about the way you pretend you are not a slave."

"E-excuse me?" Six stammered. This had to stop. Now.

"Your culture perpetuates the ridiculous notion that without authority, you are free. But what is freedom? Look at old Bill Ronte, over there. He drowns his sorrows in drink and chems. What little currency he is able to earn when he's not sick with inebriation, he throws at the nearest whore in exchange for the artifice of companionship, of love. Is he free? No. He is a slave to his base desires, to his addictions, to his thinly-veiled illusions. The man is an engineer, a genius by most standards. Were he my Lord's subject, his abilities would be put to use."

"To enslave others," Six pointed out. Somehow, she was managing to get her voice under control.

"To liberate them," Fox countered, "from the lie that any of us is ever free."

"Wow," Six grinned. "That is some top-notch bullshit you've got going there, Fox. Color me impressed."

"And you," Fox continued, undeterred. "You like to think that because you only gamble twenty chips here, ten there, or because you take chems only in the direst of circumstances, or because the whore that fucks you is made of steel and rivets rather than flesh and bone, that you can avoid the downward spiral consuming this place. It's important you understand, Miss Six, that the golden mean will not save you. Only my Lord can."

"My goodness," Six sighed, mirroring Fox's posture and bringing her face close to his. "You are handsome when you're sanctimonious."

They stared across the table at one another for a long moment, neither blinking. Six could stop this. She could just finish her drink, thank Fox for a fascinating conversation, and excuse herself to her suite. He wouldn't follow. Or maybe he would, but she didn't have to answer the door. And she wouldn't, no sir. She'd tell him to fuck off, and he would pick the lock and come in anyway and trap her in there. And maybe she'd go for the pistol under her pillow, but he would be faster, because she'd let him be…

No, he'd pick the lock and come into her suite, but she would already have the pistol out and aimed. She would shoot but miss, and he would rush her and tackle her. They would fall onto the bed, and in the subsequent skirmish over the gun, his pelvis would grind against hers and…

"Fuck," Six muttered.

"Problems, Courier?" Fox asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, not really" Six lied. Problems didn't begin to cover it. She had to be away from him for a minute, clear her head, get back into business mode. "I forgot… I've cooked up a new product your people might be interested in. It could be useful in your struggle against the 'White Legs'. Let me go get you a sample and I'll be right back."

As Six rose, Fox rose with her. "I'll come with you," he said. "We can discuss terms in a more… private setting."

Fox motioned his head to where Garret stood behind the bar. The proprietor occupied his hands washing glasses, but had resumed glaring indignantly at Fox. The glass in his hands began to squeak loudly at the friction from the towel he had been using to dry it for the last three minutes.

Fox leaned in to whisper conspiratorially in Six's ear. "It seems that he is rather fond of you."

Six waved her hand dismissively and moved toward the staircase. "Nonsense. He's just got you pegged for a bastard. Which you are."

"Nevertheless," Fox replied, following her, "I'd rather not be left alone with him."

Six whirled around and put her index finger in his face. "Deathclaw. In. Heat," she warned.

"Noted," Fox replied as they climbed the stairs to Six's room.


	2. Chapter 2

Vulpes Inculta had seduced women in every town from Flagstaff to Freeside. It was part of his job, and frankly, not his least favorite part. If he had to pick, his least favorite part was after the seduction, when the women asked him to stay. It wasn't so much that he minded a warm bed and a warm body, but that he resented their inability to see through him. Each woman believed he was the charming Mr. Fox, representative of Zion's business interests, and each woman possessed the desire to become the respectable Mrs. Fox.

Perhaps one of them would, one day. It was customary for Legion men of high rank to take a wife, though the majority of wives were taken from among the controlled territories. Farmer's daughters and the like. They tended to be obedient, and rarely recoiled in horror and disgust at the prospect of bearing Legion sons. These arrangements kept their families' comforts secure, though there was little amusement to be gleaned from them.

But the profligate women, the ones who quaffed down every honeyed deception that fell from his lips, they no doubt would pale and cower the moment Mr. Fox revealed his true countenance. They would scurry like molerats into their hidey-holes, hoping beyond hope that some white knight would appear out of the Wastes to deliver them from the horror of Vulpes Inculta's cold, unrelenting gaze. Such a disappointment.

Courier Six, her curves sheathed in black and red satin, her flesh covered in ink and scars, was a different sort of creature altogether.

"I have a job for you," Caesar had said, "and I think you're going to like it."

The Son of Mars was wise, but the Courier confounded him. House yet lived. Vulpes imagined he could detect the odor of the old man's decrepit shell all the way from the Fort. However, Martina Groesbeck was safe from the Omertas due to the Courier's unique ability to talk nearly anyone into or out of anything. She had kept her mouth shut about "Captain Curtis," and on her own initiative had freed Silus from the profligates' clutches before they had tortured any information out of him. What was more, Siri had reported that it was the Courier who had instructed her on a more efficient recipe for healing powder.

"She's sympathetic," Caesar had said. "Nudge her a little in the right direction."

Vulpes was quite certain she would be amenable to his advances, given the sway of her hips and the flush of her skin every time he drew near to her. He thought perhaps the Courier was attracted to danger. After all, she had returned from the brink of death. What thrill could surpass the feeling of dirt from a shallow grave filling her nose and throat, knowing there was no hope but the bliss of oblivion? Maybe she was trying to find one. Maybe he would give it to her.

The suite was shoddy, but far more spacious than the rooms for rent. Holes in the walls had been plastered over recently, Vulpes observed, but the dim light made it barely noticeable. The scent in the air was different in here; it smelled like gunpowder and agave nectar. Like the woman before him, digging into her backpack and producing from it a small, unmarked vial.

Cloud Kiss was what Six called her new poison. Its application promised a horrible, painful death, but a quick one. The active ingredient, about which the Courier spoke evasively, was apparently limited in quantity. The supply she stored at the 38 was all that existed in the Mojave, and Six was giving the Legion exclusive first dibs on her creation.

"You want some, you'll take the lot," Six stated, handing over the vial. "It's 2 G's for 24 doses. That's friend prices."

"So, we're friends now?" Vulpes smirked, slipping the vial into his jacket pocket.

Six turned her back to him, intending to replace her pack to its customary spot under the bed. "If you don't want the discount…"

Vulpes took a step forward and placed a hand on either side of her waist. "We can be friends," he cooed in her ear, "if you like."

Six froze. Her body tensed and her breath quickened. "Vulpes," she hissed, his true name on her tongue like the sweet sting of scorpion venom. "You and me, we'd never work out. I'm a profligate bitch… you're a mass murdering psychopath…"

"What's that old world expression?" Vulpes asked. His hands glided down the smooth fabric of her dress to her hips, and his fingers toyed with the hem of the slit up her thigh. "Opposites attract?"

"Stupid expression," Six said. "People ain't magnets. Atomic structure's totally different."

"Do go on," Vulpes said, tracing the lines of the deathclaw tattoo on her thigh.

"Electrons are paired up in nonferrous materials, like skin, and guts, and bones," she said. Her fingers ghosted along the backs of Vulpes's wrists. "Each electron spins in the opposite direction from its partner. But the electrons at each pole of a mag—_oh God_."

Vulpes's hand had slid through the slit in her dress, and beneath her soft cotton panties. His long fingers began to caress her clit in slow circles. Six leaned back against him and sighed. She took his free hand and skimmed it up her body to her breast.

"…A magnet spin in the same direction," Six continued. "So the north pole spins—ah—one way and the south pole spins the other way. And the electrons want to be paired up with partners that spin in the opposite direction, but the electromagnetic energy— oh. _Yeah._ Prevents them from coming. Together."

"Mmmm, what a shame," Vulpes hummed. His hand descended through the folds of her labia. As he spread her open with his ring and index fingers, he curled his middle finger inside her. She was as wet as he had hoped her to be. "But tell me, why do you sell your poison to the Legion?"

Six ground her clit against the heel of his palm, and moaned. Vulpes nipped at her earlobe, and she reached behind her to hold on to him by his neck.

"I have this fantasy," she breathed. "Would you like to hear it?"

"Absolutely."

_Six and Boone stroll into Caesar's tent. The Courier draws Beauregard, her shiny new merc grenade rifle. Boone hangs back; Beau-Beau don't play favorites. When the survivors get close, Six draws her katana, and Boone his machete. They cut through the Guard like in one of those pre-war revenge-against-the-man holotapes, until they get to Caesar._

_Here's a little secret: 24 doses ain't the lot. Boone and Six have dipped their combat knives in the final two applications of Cloud Kiss._

_"Et tu, Boone-ay?" Caesar says with his dying breath, as the knives plunge deep into his heart._

"And then," Six concluded, "Boone fucks me like a boss on the royal throne."

"You have a katana?" Vulpes inquired, unperturbed.

"Saving up," she replied. "Do you—_fuck_…"

Vulpes had curled a second finger inside her. "I do," he purred. "Rather well, I'm told. In fact, I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll forget your own name."

Six turned her face towards him. "Little late for that, sweetheart," she murmured, her mouth against his jaw.

As Vulpes bowed his head and their lips met, tongues dancing against each other, the taste of whiskey and sin filling his mouth, he understood a singular truth:

The Son of Mars was wise, indeed. Vulpes was going to like this job very much.


	3. Chapter 3

Six had been anticipating the seduction since she'd completed the Groesbeck assignment to the Legion's satisfaction. Vulpes's praise had pleased her more than it should have done, and he'd noticed. Despite knowing what a terrible idea it was to become involved with this man, she had fantasized about it more times than she cared to admit. When would it happen, and where? What depravities would they act out together? These thoughts had kept her loneliness at bay, even in the Sierra Madre, where she knew no one would ever find her.

Now, Vulpes's tongue was in her mouth and his fingers were in her pussy and she had made it way too easy for him. Felt awful nice, though, being touched all languorous and lazy, like this wasn't a way to manipulate her into doing what Caesar wanted.

Today's attempt to control her was more pleasant than a slave collar and less aggravating than intimidation, to be sure, but it stuck in Six's craw more than those other methods. A slave collar was brutal but straightforward: do as you're told or your dome goes pop. Intimidation was hilarious—especially coming from a disembodied head on a video screen or a Jetted-up cannibal with an unnatural affection for Brahmin—but understandable; Six's small frame and helpful nature often gave men of a certain disposition the wrong indication about her ability to defend herself and the people she loved.

Subordination through sex was just insulting. As if an orgasm would cause her to reevaluate her whole understanding of ethics, and henceforth fall ass over teakettle to do the bidding of a bunch of slaving misogynists. As if Vulpes's dick had magical powers.

Yet, there she was, crying out in delight as Vulpes thrust a third digit inside her. She dug her nails into the nape of his neck and, feeling him hard beneath his slacks, Six pushed back and rubbed up against him. Vulpes growled at the friction and squeezed her breast.

"Mea speciosa," he whispered. "Te delectat hoc?"

"Oh yes," Six moaned. She had no idea what he'd just asked her, but it sure sounded pretty. Vulpes withdrew his fingers, and Six furrowed her brow. "Wait, what'd I say?"

"Shhhh," Vulpes sibilated, bringing his fingers to her lips. "Taste."

Six clutched his arm and took each of his fingers into her mouth in turn. She whirled her tongue around them, sucking her own nectar from them, relishing the strange flavor. When she was finished, she turned her body towards him and kissed him again, grabbing his ass and pulling him closer. This time it was Vulpes who lost himself, breaking the kiss to moan at the feel of her against his body.

Six smiled, and shoved him against the wall. She wasn't as strong as he, but the act caught Vulpes by surprise and he stumbled. She fell to her knees and unbuckled his belt.

"Where's your hat?" she asked.

"What?"

"Your hat. Where is it?"

"On top of the bookshelf. How is that relev—_ohhh._"

Six had pulled out his cock and was gripping it tightly. "Not so easy, is it?" she said, her breath fluttering against his sensitive skin. "Carrying on a conversation with somebody's hands on your business?"

"Six…" Vulpes groaned, as the Courier tugged his trousers down for better access. She ran her tongue slowly from the base of his phallus to the tip, and he threaded his fingers through her dark hair.

"Vulpes?" Six looked up at him. The Fox and the Courier each noticed a predatory gleam in the other's eyes as they stared.

"You look good on your knees."

Six was naked but for the fedora perched rakishly on her head and the ballet flats on her feet. As she sat atop the dresser, she pointed a .45 auto pistol at a visibly amused Vulpes Inculta.

"That really isn't necessary, you know," Vulpes said as he unbuttoned his shirt. "Though it is a lovely weapon."

"It was a gift," Six said, "from a very special friend. He called it A Light Shining in Darkness, but I call it Joshua."

Vulpes slid his shirt down his shoulders and laid it on the bed behind him. Scars were etched deep into his lean torso, a biography of tribulation written on his skin.

"In your fantasy, am I in Caesar's tent?" he asked, feigning disinterest.

"No," she replied. Vulpes nodded smugly, as if he'd known this would be her answer. Six began to brush the barrel of the pistol against her left nipple. "The Burned Man's long since trussed you up and had you delivered to his cave. Now he spends most of his free time showin' you the error of the Legion's ways. With his cock."

"The Burned Man is a myth," Vulpes smirked. "You'll have to do better than that."

"He's not a gentle lover, that Mister Graham" Six said, moving the gun lower down her body. "He's cold, and cruel, and he don't care about your pleasure so much as your humiliation. You'll plead for his forgiveness, but he'll tell you forgiveness ain't his to give. 'Only God forgives,' that's what he'll say. And then he'll fuck you deeper. You're not a gentle lover, are you, Vulpes?"

Quicker than Six's mind could process, Vulpes was on her. The weapon was out of her hand and in his. Her breath hitched as Vulpes pressed the edge of the barrel firmly on her clit.

"Weak," he growled into her ear. With each word Vulpes spoke, Six bucked her hips, rubbing the cold metal harder against her on each thrust. "Torpid, insolent," Vulpes continued. "Degenerate. Do you prefer the feel of metal inside you to flesh? Is that why you fuck the robot?"

"The robot," Six breathed, "doesn't ask me stupid fucking questions."

They fucked against the wall, knocking over the fake fern and sending it rolling across the ostentatious throw rug. Six scored Vulpes's back with her fingernails until he bled, red life seeping from his skin like lava from the earth. Vulpes bent Six over the desk and railed her, his knuckles white and his lungs gasping for air. He grabbed her hair and pulled, sinking his teeth into her neck until his tongue tasted copper. They bloodied the sheets when she rode him on the Queen-sized bed. Vulpes flipped them over, throwing her leg over his shoulder as Six tugged at her nipples.

Her screams echoed off the walls, an aria of pleasure and pain. He came on her belly, on her tits, and they licked each other clean.

"That," said Six, "wadn't half bad."

"Not half bad?" Vulpes scoffed. "Woman, I had you speaking in tongues."

"Like I said," Six smirked.

Vulpes rolled on his side, facing her. He nibbled on her ear. "You know," he purred. "We could do this again. Anytime you want."

"Uh huh," said Six. "And all I gotta do is…"

"Join us," Vulpes finished. "You'll be my protégé. I can teach you how to be an effective frumentaria. The first frumentaria. Help you improve on the skills you lack. Stealth, for example. Unarmed combat. Together, we can shake this barren land to its foundations, and usher in a new era of prosperity under Lord Caesar."

"You practice that much?" Six retorted, raising an eyebrow. "Wait. Don't answer that. What kind of salesman would you be if you didn't rehearse your pitch before the big meet-up?"

"No need to be glib, Courier," Vulpes said. "I'm serious. I want more from you. I have since the moment we met."

"Yeah," Six drawled. "You need to go."

Vulpes frowned. "You don't want me to stay?"

"That's what 'you need to go' means, last I checked."

Vulpes nodded curtly, and rose from the bed. Six looked away from him as he dressed.

"Consider my offer," Vulpes said, placing his fedora on his head. "I guarantee you won't receive a better one anywhere in the Mojave."

"Don't get any Cloud kiss on your skin," Six advised. "Burns like a sonofabitch."

Again, Vulpes nodded, and without another word, he left the room. Six sighed. Stupid of her to forget, even for a moment, his reason for being here. In a way, she was glad he'd shattered the pretense so soon. Any longer and she might have doubted herself. It had been a gamble, taking him in the way she did. Six was never lucky, but gambling sure was fun.

As Vulpes passed by the bar on his way out, he slammed a few caps down in front of Garret.

"For the sheets," he sneered.

He could feel the barkeep's glare on his wounded back halfway to the Fort.


End file.
